Longing: Belonging
I decided, as I waited to be let into the theater, that I don't actually want to belong - though sometimes I wish I did, and feel sad that I don't.
The film was supposed to start at 18:20, but the doors to the theater weren't opened, so I stood in the foyer as the waiting crowd socialized. Every now and then, a new couple, or group, or lone single, came up the stairs to the foyer, and would be greeted with hugs and kisses and exclamations. It seemed that everybody knew everybody else.
The nearly-entirely lesbian crowd made me feel rather awkward. I felt like I didn't belong, and so very alone; but at the same time, the fact that they were women, and that they love women, made me very glad. It was just like going to the Gay and Lesbian Fair earlier in March. Being surrounded by same-sex couples - and even families - was exhilarating and heartwarming, and - paradoxically - I felt so at home even as I felt like I didn't belong.
So, standing in the foyer watching the happy faces around me chatting, drinking, kissing and hugging, I thought I wanted very much to be part of that. But - I don't know, maybe it's the smallness of the foyer or something - it felt very claustrophobic that everybody knew everybody else.
And it's the same everywhere; though I'm pretty sure it's much worse back home because ... well, for one thing, it is a very small island (all 692.7 square kilometers of it) sinking under the weight of its population of 4,425,720 (CIA - The World Factbook). So if you were born and bred on the island, you're pretty much guaranteed to know everybody else; even if you don't, you'll know somebody who knows somebody who knows you. In fact, I don't actually think there's a need for Friendster for us; our subscribing to Friendster is an overkill.
Then there is the gay community. Not exactly underground (or, at least I hope not anymore), but is somewhat limited, which makes it (more than) possible that your current squeeze is the third ex of your last ex's current squeeze's sixth ex. Sometimes, it seems almost incestuous; but mostly, it's just an overwhelming sense of stifling claustrophobia.
It's nice to go to the theater or some function and see familiar faces, but in the long run, will this familarity congeal into something more unbearable? I decided it would, even though I long to belong ... somewhere.
Maybe I want to belong to this particular community because it seems like a very happy (if there's ever a pun in this, it's not intended) thing to belong to, and belonging to it would seem like belonging to happiness. I mean, I'm not unhappy (not all the time anyway), but I just don't feel ... well, contented and satisfied.
Maybe I just want somebody whom I can share the joy of a beautiful day with, walk down Oriental Bay in summer with, body warmth on a cold winter's day with, talk late into the night with, a bottle of something and companionable silence with.
I told Jen this much, and she said - of all things - "My dear, you have grown up."
"Don't you want the same thing?" I'd asked her, chagrined that I've somehow managed to grown up without my knowledge, or wanting to. She said yeah. "So what do you do?" I persisted. And then she had given a resigned sigh and a shrug, and said, "You learn to deal."
I guess, at the end of the day, it's better that I don't want to belong. Maybe that's dealing with it.
The film was supposed to start at 18:20, but the doors to the theater weren't opened, so I stood in the foyer as the waiting crowd socialized. Every now and then, a new couple, or group, or lone single, came up the stairs to the foyer, and would be greeted with hugs and kisses and exclamations. It seemed that everybody knew everybody else.
The nearly-entirely lesbian crowd made me feel rather awkward. I felt like I didn't belong, and so very alone; but at the same time, the fact that they were women, and that they love women, made me very glad. It was just like going to the Gay and Lesbian Fair earlier in March. Being surrounded by same-sex couples - and even families - was exhilarating and heartwarming, and - paradoxically - I felt so at home even as I felt like I didn't belong.
So, standing in the foyer watching the happy faces around me chatting, drinking, kissing and hugging, I thought I wanted very much to be part of that. But - I don't know, maybe it's the smallness of the foyer or something - it felt very claustrophobic that everybody knew everybody else.
And it's the same everywhere; though I'm pretty sure it's much worse back home because ... well, for one thing, it is a very small island (all 692.7 square kilometers of it) sinking under the weight of its population of 4,425,720 (CIA - The World Factbook). So if you were born and bred on the island, you're pretty much guaranteed to know everybody else; even if you don't, you'll know somebody who knows somebody who knows you. In fact, I don't actually think there's a need for Friendster for us; our subscribing to Friendster is an overkill.
Then there is the gay community. Not exactly underground (or, at least I hope not anymore), but is somewhat limited, which makes it (more than) possible that your current squeeze is the third ex of your last ex's current squeeze's sixth ex. Sometimes, it seems almost incestuous; but mostly, it's just an overwhelming sense of stifling claustrophobia.
It's nice to go to the theater or some function and see familiar faces, but in the long run, will this familarity congeal into something more unbearable? I decided it would, even though I long to belong ... somewhere.
Maybe I want to belong to this particular community because it seems like a very happy (if there's ever a pun in this, it's not intended) thing to belong to, and belonging to it would seem like belonging to happiness. I mean, I'm not unhappy (not all the time anyway), but I just don't feel ... well, contented and satisfied.
Maybe I just want somebody whom I can share the joy of a beautiful day with, walk down Oriental Bay in summer with, body warmth on a cold winter's day with, talk late into the night with, a bottle of something and companionable silence with.
I told Jen this much, and she said - of all things - "My dear, you have grown up."
"Don't you want the same thing?" I'd asked her, chagrined that I've somehow managed to grown up without my knowledge, or wanting to. She said yeah. "So what do you do?" I persisted. And then she had given a resigned sigh and a shrug, and said, "You learn to deal."
I guess, at the end of the day, it's better that I don't want to belong. Maybe that's dealing with it.
posted by s at 22:14
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